


Blueberries in June

by Ercasse, faeriesung



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriesung/pseuds/faeriesung
Summary: Iorveth and Ciri try to come up with an idea for a birthday celebration for Geralt.





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt had returned home near daybreak, in his shiny, ridiculously gentlemanly suit of black velvet embroidered with silver and gold – a coat of twenty-five buttons, interwoven with abstract patterns of swirls, from the collar to the hem, and along the hems of sleeves and breeches. The air in the room was suddenly redolent of the many rounds of Toussaint wine passed around, and the feminine perfume of violets and roses.

Iorveth had spent the entire day surveying and tending to the vineyard, olive trees, their orangerie of lemons, and a small garden of herbs and flowers he had planted. Looking after things that grow helped him find peace, and he very much preferred peace to the incomprehensible chatter and microscopic scrutiny at court.

“Ior..Iorveth,” Geralt tried to steady his footstep, shutting the door and sliding the bolt across in two tries. “Still awake?”

Iorveth didn’t answer. He stared at Geralt from the chaise longue he was reclining on, a thumb marking the page of the book in his hand.

“Listen, you had better stay in the house for a few days.”

“What?”

“Stay in the house.” Geralt spoke slowly and controlled his voice the best he could, so as not to let the slur from drinking show too much. “The topic of ... war criminals has somehow resurfaced among courtiers.”

“And?”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Geralt took a few slow steps towards the middle of the room, loosening the cravat around his neck, shaking off his coat and laying it carelessly on the back of a chair. “I mean, I don’t want anything to happen to you…”

Geralt stood only a step away from Iorveth’s chaise, looming over him, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he glanced down on the Elf. The smell on the gentleman witcher was unbearable.

“You sound like you are talking to Triss Merigold.”

“Iorveth, this has nothing to do with…” Geralt’s voice was suddenly loud – in his insobriety he had forgotten to remove the defensiveness from his tone.

Iorveth stood from the chaise and walked out the door, not bothering to close it.

 

When Iorveth walked through the door again, he was filthy, exhausted and famished.

Geralt sat at the round, maplewood table of the drawing room, fully armed, filthy, and exhausted. He was livid. When he saw Iorveth, he wasn’t able to say anything for several seconds.

“Twelve days.” Geralt managed.

Iorveth smiled, wildly, still heady from his excursion and lack of food and rest. Proud, and comforted by the fact that his ability to evade the Vatt'ghern’s tracking had not waned.

Toussaint weather wasn’t kind to old leather. Where and how and why Iorveth had kept his Scoia’tael armour, Geralt didn’t know. He stared at Iorveth the Scoia’tael, observing the brittle leather, cracked in several places, chainmail that was rusty along the edge. Thankfully, he hadn’t cut off his hair – he simply had his red bandana around his head, letting his raven hair and braids fall around his shoulders. He had kept the lanyard of trophies across his chest, and was wearing them now – the crests had previously been polished and kept well – now they had become dull, but still recognisable.

Geralt almost smiled from a visceral feeling for Iorveth’s defiance that he knew so well.

"I didn't kill any dh'oine," Iorveth gritted out, "If that's of any concern."

“I thought you agreed to leave all that behind.” Geralt spoke quietly. His veins were still pulsing from the two potions he had to down earlier in the day. He felt a wave of tiredness wash over him.

“Agreed?” A chuckle of sarcasm escaped Iorweth’s throat, “I thought you agreed to leave…”

Geralt knew exactly what Iorveth was about to rattle on. He rounded upon him, caught his wrist, backed him against the wall with his other hand on the Elf’s shoulder, lacing their fingers together in a familiar motion as he raised and pinned Iorveth’s arm against the hard plaster, pushing a knee between his thighs and leaning his hip against his abdomen. Iorveth struggled with his other arm, which Geralt had grasped tightly on the pit of his elbow.

They were back at where they had first started. The scent of soil, moss, smoke, leather, steel, silver, oil, the musk in their sweat, the rustle of their rapid breaths and the pulsing in their chests. Geralt’s armour clashed and scraped against Iorveth’s trophy crests. Their senses were overwhelmed with each other, yet their perception felt far-removed. They remained still and stunned for a second.

And then Geralt kissed him. Geralt’s lips were dry and cracked and his tongue tasted bitter, but the warmth was welcome.

 

“What’s on your tongue?”

“Hmm?”

Iorveth had stopped struggling, simply leaning into the touch.

“It’s really sour.” Geralt said.

“… ahh, it must be,” Iorveth whispered with lidded eye.

His long eyelashes fluttered, and Geralt wanted to kiss his eyelid.

“Blueberries?”

“They are not fully ripe yet,” Iorveth met Geralt’s eyes, a smile played at his lips that drew Geralt back into the present. “But they will be, in about two weeks.”


	2. Chapter 2

Iorveth sighed and closed the book he’d been trying – and failing – to distract himself with for the past hour or so. He would have been hard pressed to describe the events taking place, only that he’d read the last paragraph thrice. Casting it aside, he moved to a set of shelves and picked up a whetstone – currently serving as a paperweight. He began to idly toss it back and forth as he scanned the shelves for another title.

“Iorveth.”

The elf turned to regard his companion. Geralt was seated at the table, pouring over documents – likely vineyard ledgers. He’d paused and was frowning over at Iorveth.

“Geralt.”  Iorveth countered, matching his tone.

“Pick something.”

“Am I _bothering_ you, Gwynbleidd?”

The vatt’ghern sat back in his chair and fixed his complete attention on Iorveth. It was the same look Iorveth knew he wore when assessing an opponent; considering battle tactics. And Geralt was _good_ at reading people. The Scoia’tael met his gaze, his expression carefully blank.

“You look like you’re….waiting for something to happen.” Geralt gestured at him. “Restless. Unable to set to a task. Very…unlike you.”

Iorveth stalked over to the large glazed window. “I would be out of doors but for the rain. I am getting soft in this place.”

The folded letter in his pocket seemed to burn like a brand against his skin in response to his half-truth. The Scoia’tael was practiced at evasion, but it felt _wrong_ with Geralt. Iorveth sighed unhappily. He had not meant for this.

“I don’t think anyone _enjoys_ being saturated. Unless you happen to be a duck or a frog. It’s hardly a weakness.” The swordsman commented.

Iorveth watched the landscape blur softly as the rain continued to soak the grounds. The elf pressed his forehead to the cool glass and closed his eye, listening to the duel sounds of the rain. There was the _familiar_ – a constant, low rustling reminding him of the ocean, or of trees moving in the wind. And then there was the _new_ \- a higher-pitched sound as the water hit wood and stonework, and formed puddles where it could not escape.

The first time it had rained here, Iorveth had been captivated…

 

\--

_Iorveth sits on the chaise with his legs curled under him. The sky is just starting to lighten when Geralt appears in the doorway, eyes glowing in the half-dark. The Witcher pads over to him, reaching out a hand to brush a dark strand of hair behind Iorveth’s pointed ear. Fingers graze the side of his face._

_“Have you been here all night? Your skin is like ice.” Geralt makes a gesture and the fireplace glows in response. It isn’t until Geralt sits behind him and pulls him into an embrace that Iorveth realises he is indeed cold. He leans into the swordsman’s warmth and sighs a little. The Scoia’tael in him snorts in disgust at the sentimental picture they must make. But Iorveth is tired, and it’s softened his sharp edges. And so he sits without protest, his back to Geralt’s chest._

_“I know elves are close to nature. But this is something else.”_

_Iorveth hums wordlessly._

_Geralt, surprisingly, does not push. And that, more than anything else causes him to finally respond. That and the fact the Witcher cannot see him, seated as they are together._

_“I’d forgotten the sound.”_

_“Of rain?”_

_“Really, Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth admonishes him._

_“Then explain it to me.” Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait._

_Iorveth struggles for the words. “Rainstorms sound different in a settlement.” He finally says. If he is being evasive it’s only because he is not sure how else to be, anymore._

_“It rained in Vergen while we were there.” Geralt comments thoughtfully. “But then, that was not your house. Nor your city.”_

_“Thank the gods.” Iorveth shudders._

_“And before that…” Geralt ponders “Trees. And caves. Ruins. A field or two? Tents in a war camp. Iorveth – how long has it been since you’ve had a place to return to...?_

_\--_

 

Iorveth was jolted from his musings as Geralt appeared at his shoulder.

“I can think of something that will take your mind off your confinement.”  Geralt grasped him by the arm and started pulling him away from the window.

“Sparring? I don’t think your housekeeper was impressed with the gouges in the bannister.”

“Good thing she’s not here full time.” Geralt agreed. “But it wasn’t sparring I had in mind. At least, not the kind you do with weapons…” the last part was rumbled close to Iorveth’s pointed ear as he was herded up the stairs.

 

The note lay forgotten for some time, buried under a mess of their clothing.

 

**

 

Two days later the skies were clear and blue. Iorveth bolted his breakfast on his way to the gardens. He inspected the smaller seedlings, looking for any damage the heavy rains might have caused. Satisfied everything was well, he began a tour of the grounds to see the changes the storm had wrought.

Geralt joined him after a while – having taken more care with his own breakfast. Iorveth was pleased to see him in a simple shirt and trousers, meaning he would not be entertaining the notoriety of Toussaint today.  The man fell silently in step with Iorveth, keeping him company on his ramble.

They were just completing their walk when Iorveth picked out another pale haired figure approaching the house.

“Oh look. Ciri’s here.” Iorveth commented.

They changed course slightly to meet her. When they were a few yards away, Ciri strode forward, embracing her adopted father warmly. She was just tall enough on her toes to throw a wink over Geralt’s shoulder at Iorveth. “Good to see you, Geralt.” Then, to Iorveth’s surprise she darted forward and pulled him into a hug too. “And you, Iorveth.”

“Likewise.” He awkwardly returned the hug. It was never going to get easier, he decided.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Geralt asked.

“Must I have a reason to come and visit my father?” she countered.

“Uh oh. Sounds ominous.”

“Too much?”

“Too much.” Geralt agreed.

Iorveth snorted. She may have been the trueborn daughter of Emhyr, but she’d certainly learnt her charm from the White Wolf. Together they were an incorrigible pair.

“There’s no help for it then.” She sighed, dramatically. “I’m here to celebrate your birthday, of course!”

“My birthday.” Geralt echoed. He looked suspiciously between Iorveth and Ciri for a minute.

“Are you two….scheming behind my back?”

“You’re imagining things, Gwynbleidd.” He commented blandly. “But why not celebrate the event while your daughter is visiting?” he clapped Geralt on the shoulder, moving past him. “June’s an excellent month to be born. Come, Ciri will want to freshen up, and you’re being a terrible host by delaying her in the yard.”

 

Iorveth returned the wink – when he was confident it would go unnoticed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was easier to let Ciri deal with Geralt.

“Iorveth and I are going for a walk,” Ciri spoke with her back straight, head high, in a voice that broached no argument. “We'll be back soon."

Geralt was momentarily thrown off – Iorveth could tell by the way he broadened his stance, speaking with a voice just a quarter of a note lower in tone and half a notch higher in volume. While Geralt bombarded Ciri with 5W1H questions, demanding a clear answer, Iorveth remained in the background, mostly pretending to pick up fallen leaves and dust off the top of garden furniture with his sleeve. Ciri's answers were decidedly vague, but she spoke them with eloquence and determination, giving Geralt no quarter.

“Don't worry, I'll protect him!” Ciri reassured Geralt, who stood frowning and unconvinced, but nonetheless resigned.

 

Some minutes later, they were on their way, off the road, moving quickly among the landscape unseen by the common eye. Ciri was absolutely thrilled.

“I won't cheat,” Ciri said with a grin, “It's fair game!”

Ciri moved with incredible speed even without the use of her powers. Soon they were at a crossroad and Ciri had to stop for directions. Iorveth led Ciri among the trees, without a path, stepping over mossy rocks and jutting roots, finding their footing among overgrown brambles. They had to slow down for a time, but soon the closed-in forest opened up to a field full of blueberries.

“Oh, this is amazing!” Ciri ran forward, turning around with a little caper to face Iorveth. She began looking for ripe blueberries immediately, holding a small bunch of berries in her hands, carefully testing and rolling ripe berries into her palms.

“Ahh, we forgot to take a basket with us,” Ciri remarked, tasting a couple of blueberries and nodding approvingly. “But these are wonderful – good find!”

Iorveth untied the white satin sash around his waist, leaving the front of his robe to fall down to his sides.

“We'll have to make do with this, I suppose.” Ioveth said as he tied the two ends of the sash together, securing the cloth into a makeshift bundle.

“Sure, thanks,” Ciri reached over to place the berries in the bundle. “You still look fashionable, so no worries.”

Iorveth laughed softly.

 

The sun rose higher in the clear sky, dispersing the last of morning mist, glazing a sheen of light on the small, round leaves that brushed against their skin, and soft, dew-laden grass at their feet.

“We were due to perform at a grand country house once,” Ciri mused as she cupped a protective hand over the small bunch of berries in her palm.

“I was travelling with an Elven theatre troupe at the time – ” Ciri continued, raising her gaze to Iorveth's surprised look. “Their kitchen staff went on strike right before the banquet, so we had to stand in. Picking berries for a pie was one of the things I had to do – the season wasn't too great that year, but it was supposed to be a pie for thirty people!”

“That's quite some work for one person.” Iorveth said as he carefully added a handful of berries into the bundle, while Ciri held it. “Thankfully, we are two.”

“That's true!” Ciri said in good humour.

Ciri placed another handful of berries in the bundle. After a peek at the amount of berries they had gathered so far, both of them agreed it needed more work.

 

“When I had to pick berries for the baronet's banquet,” Ciri spoke quietly, “I wished I had known more magic. At the time, I thought it would have saved all the time and hard work, but now, all I've known is – ”

Ciri lifted her gaze to meet Iorveth's eye.

 

“Magic can't tell the good from the bad, the true from the false.” Ciri said adamantly.

“It takes time and practice, but you learn to pick the best.” Iorveth replied, with an even tone, but he caught the searching look in Ciri's eyes.

Ciri smiled in understanding, and Iorveth returned the gesture with a smile, too.

 

A short time later, a grey conglomeration of clouds covered the sky rapidly and soon a heavy rain poured through. They had to move on – finding temporary but not impervious shelter in the forest.

“These summer storms,” Ciri exclaimed as streams of rain that seeped through the canopy dripped onto her shoulders, “They never give any warning until you feel the first drop on your head!"

“Do you think we've got enough berries?” The bundle felt light in Iorveth's hand.

“Sure, I think so.” Ciri said after a brief look, taking over the bundle of berries into her hands.

 

They took to the main road because the hidden paths they came by were flooded with rain. Apparently, Geralt had decided he was not going to sit at home and agonise over at which point in time he should set about tracking down his wayward charges – he met them halfway down the main carriage way towards Corvo Bianco.

The berry-picking crew were drenched from head to toe, their trousers muddy to the knees, their shirts slashed at the sleeves and had leaves and brambles caught on them. The white satin sash Ciri now carried the berries with was stained with blotches of dark purple and dripping at their feet. Iorveth was brandishing a knife he had used to cut the overhanging vines and branches that blocked their way.

 

“I guess I should have known.”

Geralt glared at Iorveth, who held his gaze nonchalantly.

“And what might you have there?” Geralt asked, eyeing the bundle in Ciri's hands.

“Just a baby nekkar,” Ciri took a step forward, puffing her chest and raising her chin, “I'm going to make into a casserole for your birthday!”

“I don't have a birthday, Ciri.” Geralt said, defeated again. “And that is definitely not a baby nekkar. Besides, I don't know what's worse – a baby nekkar on its own, or your cooking.”

 

Ciri took in a sharp breath – her eyes widened and she looked as if she was ready to fight.

To pass this awkward moment of silence, Iorveth wiped his knife down with the hem of his robe and replaced the blade cleanly back in its scabbard.

 

Ciri broke out in laughter.

“Geralt's right!” Ciri knocked the side of Iorveth's arm lightly with her elbow, “I am a terrible cook, I hope you have a good recipe.”

“Speaking of which, Geralt,” Ciri met Geralt's eyes again, not a shred of conflict existing anymore, “Would you please make yourself useful and find us some eggs!”

“Ask Barnabas' wife – we should have some in the kitchen.” Geralt waved a hand as he turned towards the road back to Corvo Bianco, “I'm off – Barnabas needs some help.”

“Don't go far! We'll call you in when it's ready.” Ciri called after Geralt.

“I don't know what you two are planning, but as long as you don't burn the place down...” Geralt stopped in his tracks and turned his head, raising another warning glance towards the two.

“Fine, fine! We shan't keep you. Go and help Barnabas.” Ciri patted Geralt's shoulders, pushing him forward.

 

The kitchen at Corvo Bianco was rectangular and spacious, lined by two large windows on one side, looking out to the back garden. After the storm, sunlight was breaking through the clouds again, filtering through the windows and casting a warm glow on the chestnut coloured workbench. Fragrant herbs lined the beams – a combined effort of Geralt, Iorveth and the household staff.

“Look,” Ciri set the bundle of berries down carefully on the workbench. “I'm totally clueless when it comes to fine cooking. It's all on you now.”

Iorveth looked around the kitchen – he might have been good with gathering and drying herbs, and while he was practised at field cooking, he hadn't laid hands on any proper kitchen equipment in his lifetime. Absently, he gathered a few essential ingredients from the larder, laying them out one by one on the workbench.

"Shall I leave you alone to it?” Ciri said, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

“No,” Iorveth replied, somewhat flustered, “I mean, I might need more help from you after all.”

“Sure,” Ciri said, stepping forward, “How may I help? Mind you, I can't cook.”

“Forget what Geralt said,” Iorveth implored, “Let's start with the recipe, shall we?”

“Good,” Ciri concurred, “Let me take a look...”

“It's from Barnabas' wife,” Iorveth explained, “Written in dialect – I can't read it.”

“ _M_ yrtilles _sauvages,_ there we go,” Ciri said with a smile, “I'll translate it for you.”

 

They began with sorting the good blueberries from the ruined ones – they weren't left with very many, but it was enough. They spent an hour scrambling amidst dramatic triumphs and failures, Iorveth's quiet curses and Ciri's hearty laughter, finally whipping the blueberry cake into shape. When the oven was lit and their _chef d'oeuvre_ was in its final stages of completion, they let out a breath and sat down, Ciri on a stool, resting her back against the wall, Iorveth leaning against the windowsill.

 

“Geralt doesn't have a birthday, you know. You heard him earlier.” Ciri said, looking at Iorveth across the room. “But...birthdays are a big deal for the Aen Seidhe, aren't they?”

“This was how I remember birthdays were celebrated...” Iorveth said quietly, looking out the window at the back garden, leaves on young fruit trees swaying in the wind, thinking he should probably plant some new ones, to make the place feel more like home. “At least when... well, at least...”

 

Ciri's gaze rested on the scarred side of Iorveth's face.

 

“ _You, are a very pretty thing.” The Honourable Lady had said to her. “You are very talented at magic, I heard?”_

_The Lady was dazzling, making Ciri's heart tighten, impeccably dressed and mannered, holding her at the waist and caressing her..._

“ _Why don't you get that scar fixed?” She smiled coyly down at her, “It's the first thing I'd do.”_

 

_Magic can't tell the good from the bad, the true from the false._ Ciri remembered her own words and conviction, and how Iorveth had understood her implicitly.

 

“Iorveth,” Ciri's voice rang clear above the silence.  
  


Iorveth looked up in surprise.  
  


“Thank you for doing this,” Ciri said candidly, “Thank you for being in Geralt's life, and mine.”

 

Iorveth was unable to answer. He could and should have said something perfectly polite, but he couldn't, he was so shaken despite himself. Truth be told, he had always thought himself a mere passing figure in Ciri's life. Sometimes, he wasn't even sure _what_ he was to Geralt, let alone...

 

“Let's check on the cake, shall we?” Ciri said cheerfully, walking around the chestnut workbench. They each crossed the room to meet the other, till they were standing next to each other again. The warm aroma of baking wafted in the air.

 

“Do you think... Geralt will appreciate it?“ Iorveth asked with some uncertainty.

“Of course he will!”

The blueberry cake emerged from the oven nicely risen and lightly golden. Ciri let out a cheer of delight.

“Do you want to go ahead and get Geralt?” Ciri said with a wink, “I'll stay and set the table in the garden.”


	4. Chapter 4

Iorveth mindfully traced his way along the road, neatly avoiding puddles. He didn’t feel like changing for a second time that day. It didn’t take long before he spotted Barnabas and Geralt hovering over a section of wall bordering the path.   

Iorveth stood behind them and peered over their shoulders.

“What’s so fascinating about the wall?” he finally asked.

Barnabas jumped out of his skin, though Geralt had clearly registered his presence.

The majordomo cleared his throat in annoyance. “Nothing. We were observing for leaks.”

“Do you…often watch walls for leaks?” Iorveth asked slowly, wondering if the human had gone a bit soft in the head.

Geralt sighed. “Some of the stone came loose with all the rain we’ve been having. Barnabas was worried the excess water would start to flood some of the crop fields. It will make for a terrible vintage if that happens.”

“So you’re trying your hand at dry stone walling then?” Iorveth was amused.

“The local mason won’t be here for another few days. I used _aard_ to knock the foundation stones back into place.”

“It will do for now.” Barnabas agreed.

“Excellent, because your presence is required.” Iorveth simply reached out and threaded an arm through Geralt’s.

The Witcher caved after a moment and allowed Iorveth to steer him back to the house. “See you in the morning, Barnabas.” Geralt hollered over his shoulder.

“So the baby nekker casserole is ready then?” he teased Iorveth. “Please tell me the house is still standing? Though this escapade seems to have gone better – judging by the state of your clothes.” He tugged Iorveth’s sleeve playfully.

“Life on a vineyard truly agrees with you, Gwynbleidd. I’ve never seen someone so keen to assist with manual labour.”

“Not many Witchers get to retire. I like this place. It’s satisfying to watch it change with the seasons.  And to be able to make long term plans. Never had that before.”

Iorveth hummed in agreement. “It’s been a long time for me as well.”

“You are…happy to be here then?” Geralt asked suddenly.

Iorveth was taken aback. “Of course I am. I would not be here elsewise.”

“Even though you are not among your kin?”

Iorveth fought the urge to make a snide remark – his fallback position for uncomfortable questions, personal questions. He was still getting used to sharing his thoughts with the Witcher.

“There are days, Gwynbleidd. But living in Saskia’s Free State would have been…disastrous. Half the population still despise me for my actions –“

“-And the other half admire you for them.” Geralt interjected.

Iorveth snorted. “Exactly. So how could I live in such a place? How could I _breathe_ and just _be_?”

The chateau loomed in front of them, and Iorveth realised he hadn’t been taking note of the scenery for some time.

He cleared his throat. “You do not…expect. Or suffocate. Or judge. That means more to me than you know. Just…don’t get any ideas about moving into the city proper with your stuffy courtiers. Because I won’t follow.”

Geralt slung an arm over Iorveth’s shoulder so their sides were pressed together as they walked. Iorveth huffed at the gesture but didn’t try to break free. “I’d rather be here on this vineyard, with you.” The Witcher responded, his tone warm.

 

**

 

Iorveth led the Witcher around the house and through the garden until they reached a wooden table that had been set for three. On it sat a jug of a mild, local ale; a pot of tea; glazed cups and plates and at the very center – the blueberry cake.

“Ah – there you are!” Ciri called, exiting from the house, a small pot of cream in her hands. “Couldn’t resist.” She set it down next to the cake.

“Is that – blueberry cake?” Geralt asked, staring at the dessert in bafflement.

“Yep! With a lemon glaze on the top. Stop looking so concerned, Geralt!” she admonished him.

Iorveth sat and the others followed suit.

Two pairs of eyes looked to Iorveth expectantly.

“What?”

“Are we supposed to do anything in particular before we eat the cake?” Ciri prompted.

Iorveth just stared at them.

“You’ve never had a birthday celebration?”

“I don’t remember when my birthday was supposed to be.” Geralt shrugged.

“And I was raised by Wolves.” Ciri commented, cheekily.

Geralt elbowed her.

Iorveth chuckled. “Very well.” He reached for the knife and began to cut slices for them all.

“When I was young my mother would always make blueberry cake for my birthday. A few days beforehand we would go and pick the berries together. When I was very young, she would often take me on walks and at some point we would just ‘happen’ across blueberries. Then my mother would laugh and we would eat and pick berries until I had no room for dinner.  When I learnt to navigate the forest better, she would announce our excursion and let me pack for the expedition.”

He handed plates off to Ciri, then Geralt.

“Of course – I do not remember the recipe she used. But fresh blueberries were a must.”

Finally, he pulled a plate towards himself.

“Happy Birthday, Geralt.” Iorveth wished him.

“Happy Birthday!” Ciri echoed.

All was quiet for a moment as they dug in. “Oooh! This is good!” Ciri exclaimed, and reached for the cream to drizzle some on the still-warm cake.

“Very nice.” Geralt commented, eating slowly. He took a sip of ale. “Thank you both.”

One slice turned into two for both Ciri and Iorveth, but Geralt declined. “Perhaps later.”

When they were done Ciri produced a piece of paper and handed it to Geralt. “It seems you have everything you need, but this is something you might enjoy.” It was a note from Eibhear Hattori – the elven blacksmith – promising the delivery of a new blade to Geralt.

“I found one of the Cat School crafting documents in the unlikeliest of places. I know you were only missing the blade to complete the set.” Ciri shrugged.

Geralt grinned at her. “I’m beginning to like birthdays.”

Iorveth went in and retrieved his own present to give to Geralt. The Witcher opened a soft leather folio to find a sheaf of drawings – all of the vineyard. Some were simple landscapes, while others showed the various folk who dwelled nearby, carrying out daily tasks. Geralt featured in a few of them himself.

“Most of these were from the first year on the vineyard. I thought you might like them.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“I’m passable - not an artist, Geralt.”

“They’re still beautiful.”

“Happy Birthday, Gwynbleidd.”

 

**

 

Much later the house lay silent as the world around them slept.

Iorveth had to know. “Was it the lemon?”

“Hmm?” Geralt rumbled.

“The cake. Was it the lemon that wasn’t to your taste?”

 “I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice.” Geralt sighed. “I don’t enjoy blueberries.” He admitted.

Iorveth punched him in the arm. “You should have said something!”

“And spoil your efforts?”

“You’re supposed to enjoy your birthday, not suffer for it.” Iorveth grumbled.

“I didn’t suffer. It was a very enjoyable afternoon, spent with people I care about. Followed by a very enjoyable evening.” He pulled Iorveth in for a kiss.

“Next time, just say something?”

“Strawberries.”

“What?”

“I’m partial to strawberries.”

 

 

FIN


End file.
